


Exception

by McEnchilada



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Canonical Character Death, M/M, Not A Fix-It
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-06
Updated: 2012-09-06
Packaged: 2017-11-13 17:11:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/505824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/McEnchilada/pseuds/McEnchilada
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I don’t get good things. I never did. I used to think that maybe you were the exception to that. I thought I might get to keep you.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Exception

**Author's Note:**

> First fic I'm posting on here, enjoy.

“I don’t get good things. I never did.”  


He’d gotten a father who drank and a mother who didn’t stop the blows from landing and an older brother who tried to help but was just grateful when he hasn’t the target.  


He’d gotten a car accident and a cloudy funeral and nowhere to go except for an orphanage that provided nothing except more people to make nothing better.  


He’d gotten a life in the circus and a knack for weapons and mentors who ended up being as bad as his father had ever been.  


He’d gotten a career of bad decisions and mistakes and shots he took without being sure they ought to have been taken.  


“I used to think that maybe you were the exception to that. I thought I might get to keep you.”  


Coulson had been different from the beginning. He’d offered his hand and Clint had taken it, watching levelly as Coulson’s eyes had swept over him, head to toe, sizing him up and analyzing and matching everything up to what he’d heard about this asset.  


Coulson had been fascinating in his normalcy, in his plain black suit with his perfectly neutral expression. Clint had wanted to find out what emotions weren’t allowed through the mask, what words the agent was biting back behind that bland smile.  


Coulson had been capable almost to the point of it being frightening. Clint was the sniper, Clint was Hawkeye, Clint was the one who was paid to notice every detail, but Coulson was the one who spotted everything that Clint didn’t want to reveal.  


Coulson had been tolerant to a degree that surprised Clint. Every other handler had grown tired of his snark, of his going against orders, of his constant pushing of barriers to see what would break them. Coulson had just put up with him, learned to work with him, and smiled.  


“Guess there aren’t any exceptions, are there? Not even for you.”  


Phil had been the one who’d finally caved, in the end, had finally ended the tentative dance they’d been circling each other in.  


Phil had been the one to confess that his feelings went beyond professionalism, that, towards Clint, he’d always be compromised.  


Phil had been the one who’d left everything open to Clint, let Clint set every pace and open every door and erect every fence.  


Phil had been the one who’d never pushed, had been happy to take what Clint was prepared to offer, had left every choice up to his archer.  


“God, Phil, I—I don’t even know what I’m doing. I don’t know what to do.”  


Clint had been the one who’d pushed and pulled and refused to let anything rest.  


Clint had been the one who’d tested everything to its max, and then tried to force it beyond that limit, just to see what would make it all shatter.  


Clint had been the one to lash out like an animal in pain, knowing that Phil was good but not able to stop himself from attacking because he’d already been hurt.  


Clint had been the one who’d made himself a statement, had broadcasted “take it—take all of it—take all the flaws and the imbalances and the smartassery and the hurt I can cause—take it or leave it.”  


“It was all so much easier when you were here. You always told me what came next.”  


Their first date was Phil’s suggestion; he took Clint out to eat at a tiny Italian restaurant and they’d shared glances and meaningful silences over their pasta.  


Their first kiss was Phil’s move; they parted ways outside of the restaurant and Phil leaned in and his mouth tasted like tiramisu.  


Their first time together was in Phil’s apartment; it was patient and fast and passionate and tender and Clint had been happy to agree to spend the night when Phil asked him to.  


Their first mission was Phil’s success; he was the only handler who ever got and kept Hawkeye under control because he was the first one Clint wanted to please.  


“I keep expecting to find you at home. I just can’t believe that you’re gone.”  


Home was returning from missions and passing out on the couch because the bedroom was too far away, and waking up under a blanket and with Phil’s fingers in his hair.  


Home was watching bad reality TV together because sometimes it was nice to fake having a life without terrorists and aliens and saving the world.  


Home was dust collecting on the tourist trinkets they made a tradition of buying whenever either of them was on a mission without the other and the postcards they delivered by hand rather than mailed.  


Home was blankets tangled around their legs and their breath hot and heavy and Phil panting out Clint’s name amidst half-heard words of affection.  


“I miss you. Do you even know how much I…”  


Phil whispered, “I love you” when he thought Clint was asleep, his breath ghosting over the back of Clint’s neck and being chased by a gentle kiss.  


Phil laughed, “I love you” when Clint gave him a set of adult-sized Captain America footie pajamas for Christmas, curled up together on the couch of the apartment that was still just Phil’s.  


Phil promised, “I love you” when he slid the simple gold band around Clint’s finger during the tiny civil ceremony attended only by them, Natasha, and Fury.  


Phil replied, “I love you” when Clint wondered why, why Phil stayed, why Phil let him stay, why Phil put up with him, why Phil bothered.  


“Thanks, I guess, for everything. Except for dying. I could kill you for that, idiot.”  


Phil visited him in medical after their third mission together, after Clint took a bullet to the arm and an unhealthy amount of shrapnel to his chest. He brought paperwork and a coffee.  


Phil visited him in medical after their ninth mission together, after Clint got knocked out and stayed out for three days. He brought a cheeseburger and a stack of books.  


Phil visited him in medical after Phil was held by terrorists for four days and Clint stayed on the shooting range until he collapsed from exhaustion. He brought him stern words and whispered _I’m sorry_ ’s.  


Phil visited him in medical after their twenty-third mission together, after Clint lost almost too much blood and flat-lined on the operating table. He brought him an offer and a, “Sorry I don’t have a ring.”  


“I guess that’s it.”  


There was silence over the comms, when Clint had been in place for so long that even he was out of banter and finally obeyed the “Maintain radio silence, Barton” order.  


There was silence in the darkness, when Clint could listen to Phil’s breathing and blanket himself in the security that surrounded them.  


There was silence in hospital rooms, when one or the other of them was injured and unconscious and the other held their breath and prayed.  


There was silence in the apartment, now, when Clint came home and everything was the way they’d left it and nothing was the same at all.  


“I love you.”


End file.
